New challenge!

So, I hate cancer. Really hate cancer. It scares the poop out of me, and it's why we've been eating a plant based whole foods diet-- so much research has shown how minimizing the consumption of animal protein (milk, eggs, and meat) reduces the risk of cancer.

True story. Check it out here.

But what really gets me is children getting cancer. Stories come up where some kid is having to fight this unfair battle (like, really, cancer? You couldn't pick on someone your own size?), and I can't even finish reading about them. It breaks my heart into pieces and I just want to snuggle my kids until the threat disappears. I realize there's a reason for everything and all that jazz, but it doesn't take away how hard it is. I'm selfish. I get that. I want my kids to stick around, and I want everyone else's kids to stick around.

So this month, I'm doing this.

There was a time (a yearish ago) where running 100 miles a month wasn't a big deal. Lately, though, I'm still adjusting to having three kids, working, and treating running as a gift to myself rather than as something to check off my to-do list. My mileage will vary from 20ish miles a week all the way down to 3 miles a week. If I feel like biking, doing the elliptical, lifting weights-- I've been doing that instead. If I'm tired, slept horribly, or fighting a cold, I don't exercise, and I don't beat myself up for it. It's been wonderful for my relationship with myself.

But for kids with cancer? I'm willing to kick it up a notch.

If you want to donate to help me help kids, go here: http://www.alexslemonade.org/mypage/116753

You'll see a super cute picture of my kid, which makes it worth at least checking out.

It's nice being a place where I can focus on running for happiness, for health (for myself and others), rather than out of self hatred. Such a wonderful place to be in.

So many things.

First of all, our vacation has been awesome. I'm incredibly sad that it will be ending too terribly soon, but it really has been amazing.

Several shades of amazing. With all sorts of surprises and goodies and everything wonderful.

But I want to talk about something else for a moment, and then I'll get on to the happy later (with my last post, I should probably start with the happy, but I won't. Because this is my house, and I do what I want!).

The other day, whilst on vacation, I entered into one of my sanctuaries-- the bookstore. My other slices of heaven include anywhere I'm running and the library-- so if someone can train me to be coordinated to run while reading, I'll be set (audiobooks, though lovely, do not count). The husband kept the kids so I could go in for a few minutes alone, which was a treat. Though I do adore my chitluns, being able to wander freely between the aisles without fear of someone taking a book down to rip (literally) through the pages, or knock over a display, or run like maniacs between the legs of some unsuspecting patron-- this was a treat indeed.

In perusing the aisles, I came across the self-improvement section. As this was a religiously affiliated bookstore, it did not surprise me to see some of the titles. They were separated into sections, including parenthood, faith, and fitness. There were titles on organization, and some on time management. When my eyes traveled over the marriage section, though, I saw some familiar titles-- ones I had purchased myself years ago-- and the grump monster stirred in my belly.

"How to Affair Proof Your Marriage."

There were several books on this very topic, and I glanced up to make sure I was still in the "self improvement" section. The reason why I doubted this was for what I feel is a very obvious reason:

If you don't want an affair in your marriage, don't have one.

One would assume that if you are worried enough about an affair happening in your marriage that you are willing to purchase books on the topic, you are likely in the category of people who would not have an affair. For you, the decision (and yes, it is a decision) is easy-- simply do not have an affair.

Beyond that, it is out of your control.

That isn't to say that you have permission to act like a total turd bucket (the clinical term) in your relationship-- the rules behind being a decent human being require being respectful to others, especially your spouse-- but to say that there are things to do to prevent an affair from happening indicate that there is some fault in the betrayed spouse when an affair happens. And to be honest, I've not heard of something more ridiculous.

Have you heard someone blame the betrayed? I have. And it's absurd. And to be honest, it's insulting to everyone involved. To the betrayed spouse? You could have done something differently. Or not done something that you did do. Or you should have done more. All of this hurt and awful in your heart? You were kind of asking for it. And for the person who had the affair? How does it feel to realize that you don't have complete control over your actions? I know someone who doesn't have complete control over his actions. His name is Felix. He's an infant (12 weeks old). He regularly poops his pants, and he gets really upset about it. I imagine it probably is just as upsetting when you realize you're capable of the same level of control over your actions as well.

The truth is, you can do everything perfectly, and your spouse is still capable of making his/her own choices. You can be completely and totally miserable in your marriage, and you can still choose to be faithful. You can be married to some June Cleaver/Martha Stewart/super savvy business woman/Playboy Bunny mix, and still choose to violate her trust. So to write a book that has a list of things that you can do to make your marriage "affair proof" (translation: immune to affairs) is advertising mind control. And body control. Which, as far as I know, doesn't exist. We are all agents over our own brains and bodies (except Felix, who, in spite of his sad protests, still continues to poop his pants), so to tell someone that they can do something to keep someone from doing something else is absurd. And mean. It makes you a bully, because you are casting blame on someone who has not earned it.

So as I continued down the aisle, I considered writing the book titled, "Everything You Can Do To Prevent an Affair (Legally)" and then have the inside read, "Don't have one." But, alas, I doubt such a short book would be published. With something as complex and heartbreaking as the violation of marital trust, we want to think we can do so much to keep it from happening. But to suggest that there is the check list of things we can do is to say that those who are victim to the emotional car wreck are at least partially responsible for the pain they feel. That is what we call in the social work profession "victim blaming." Stop it. Stop all of it.

Start taking responsibility for yourself, and stop blaming other people when you screw up. The world would be a much better place if we all decided to do just that.

Let's Chat.

There is something I need to get off my chest.

At church on Sunday, we had a great lesson in Relief Society (our women's organization) discussing ways to improve and strengthen family relationships. The insights and contributions offered by the women around me were uplifting, and renewed my desire to put forth a conscious effort to constantly improve the emotional well being of my husband and children.

That being said, I must address a particular point that was made that I have found to spread across individuals in various situations: Hugging.

It seems innocuous, right? With the colloquial phrases used, hugging is a ubiquitous phenomenon that appears to be happening on the regular ("hug it out," for example). The original point being made was that it is important to express affection in the home, and hugging was offered as an example. As the discussion continued, though, hugging became the only form of affection to be offered, and it was not limited to individuals in your home-- it was discussed as something you should do (not could, but should), even if someone doesn't want to be hugged. It was actually stated that if someone is upset and even if they do not want to be hugged, you should hug them anyway, because it will really help them.

First of all, there are various ways to be affectionate. In fact, there is an entire book that goes into all the various forms of affection, and different people respond more to certain forms than others (words of affirmation, service, one-on-one time, gifts, as well as physical touch). What is important is identifying how your loved one interprets affection, and showing them love that way. It isn't to say that a person cannot feel love in any of the other ways, but it is more meaningful and effective to utilize the love language they respond to most. Limiting yourself to just one in expressing your love/affection to others, and suggesting there is only one way to express affection, really diminishes the capacity for love and affection to exist within your system.

Second, when someone has expressed they do not want to be hugged-- whether it is through their words or body language-- and you desire to hug them anyway, it is no longer about showing affection. At that point, the motivation is purely selfish-- whether it initiates from a place of wanting to be helpful or some other seemingly altruistic stance-- because you are ignoring the needs and desires of the other individual so you can do the something you know how to do, because you are uncomfortable doing nothing. You would rather avoid your own discomfort and make the other person uncomfortable than respect their wishes. The person who does not want to be hugged, for whatever reason, does not interpret "affection" from the hug, and hugging them anyway will not help them. It will more likely keep them from ever coming to you in a difficult situation ever again.

Third, and probably most importantly-- if someone has expressed in any way that they do not want to be hugged, whether with their words or body language, and you hug them anyway, it is no longer a hug. It is assault. You don't know why the person doesn't want to be hugged-- Perhaps they didn't grow up in a huggy-home, they're self-conscious, or maybe they just don't like you. The reason doesn't matter-- you do not have consent to touch them, and you are not entitled to their body. Acting against their wishes communicates that you no longer deem them a person worthy of respect and autonomy, but instead you view them as an object to be acted upon.

I am one of these people that do not like to be hugged. I'll hug the crap out of my kids and my husband, and the occasional close friend (under very specific circumstances), and I'll take hugs from them in return. But my circle of hug-trust is miniscule, and you know why? I'm a survivor of sexual assault. If you give me an unwanted hug, you may end up with an unwanted throat punch.

So to you, a hug may not be a big deal. "I don't know what I would do if I couldn't hug someone," someone said during the lesson. My body, or anyone's body, is not a tool for you to feel better, and if this is the place you are going emotionally/mentally, that isn't on me. It's on you.

So be open to the possibility that your physical "fix" isn't so benign to the person you're inflicting it upon-- you may be doing more harm than good.

Priorities.

I've been struggling a lot lately, and just recently decided to take an inventory of why. Whenever I struggle, I notice that there are a lot of things in my "should" pile that I'm not doing, and as a result, I'm grumpy, tired, irritable, and feel like I'm racing to bedtime just so I can get some "peace."

That's a crappy way to use up a day.

So what have my shoulds been?

My house should be clean-- spotless-- so that if anyone drops by, I don't have to feel embarrassed.
This comes from a variety of places. I was in trouble a lot growing up because my room was a mess. When I was dating my husband, his mother would make comments about whether I would volunteer to help clean when I was at their house (which, while it is a nice thing to do, why the devil is it an expectation that I clean YOUR house?), and then she would clean when she came over to babysit. It was embarrassing. I am a terrible wife and mother if my house isn't clean. The spirit isn't as strong if my house isn't clean.

This is ridiculous. I have three kids, three and under. And while I know that I can keep my house clean (because I've done it), it comes at an absurd expense. I'll get the house clean while the husband is out on a ride, and then I'll be grumpy because he was out doing something for him, and I was doing something for the family. Or I'll neglect the littles while I'm cleaning, and get frustrated and angry if I'm cleaning one thing and they're destroying something else (as a result of being ignored). I certainly shouldn't let my house become a danger zone, but the idea that I can keep it positively spotless while still giving my children the attention they deserve is unfair to everyone involved.

I should get my workout in before my family wakes up so I don't take time away from them, and I can feel accomplished for the day.
This has been a hard rule that I've followed as a result of many things-- one being that it is so hot now that exercising outside when it isn't early morning is almost impossible in the unbearable heat. I also noticed that if I didn't get it in first thing, I would often delegate it to the evening, and then by the time the kids were in bed, I'd be too tired to do it, and I'd feel guilty/worthless/gross for not having exercised.

So many health issues involved here. One is that I know from the research the husband and I are obsessed with that adequate sleep is one of the most important things you can incorporate to positively impact your health. With a ten week old baby, sacrificing sleep to get up early on top of nursing all night long, and staying up to spend time with the husband after the kids go to bed, I recognize that I'm giving up such an important component of my physical health to exercise-- which I do for my physical health. It's counterproductive. And if I sacrifice time with my husband to go to bed earlier, I'm choosing to negatively impact my relationship. And by getting up early to go exercise, I miss my favorite time of the day-- the part where all my littles slowly wake up, and want to wrestle and play and are SO happy! And the guilt that comes from not getting my workout in? Oy. Such a history of disordered thinking.

If I'm going to be a runner, I should be fast. And getting faster. And I should do well in all the events I run in.
This was my mentality all through training for the marathon last year, which resulted in injury. And the reason why I HAVE to run in the morning is I can't run hard when it's hot out, and if I'm not running hard, then I'm not getting faster. The problem with this is that I fall into the cycle of get up early-- or don't, then I have to run at night, when it's cool, but then I'm too tired-- and I deny myself the option of running during the day. Because I can't run FAST when it's hot out. Ugh, this is ridiculous. If I can get four miles in at a decent pace, that's great! That's so good! That's getting all the physical benefits of exercise my body needs to be healthy. It's all or nothing thinking, which falls into "stinking thinking" we talk about in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It's a vicious cycle that results in self sabotage. I'm a wife and a mom. I'm awesome. I enjoy running. I don't have to be the fastest person to still enjoy running. And by thinking I need to be the fastest, I'm denying myself a lot of opportunities to actually run-- because I cut out the part of the day where I actually have time to run while still enjoying the more important things in my life. It's just silly.

At the end of each day, after I tuck my littles into bed, I always think about whether I've given them a really great day. I'm so aware of how quickly time is passing, and I want so badly to be a great mom to them. So when I get to the end of the day, and I look back at how irritable I was, how grumpy I was, because I didn't get enough clean, or didn't get my hard workout in, I feel awful. Guilty. I didn't do right by the people who mean the world to me. And then I'm tired because I woke up too early on too little sleep, and can't enjoy the time I have with my husband. What a crappy way I've been living, all because my attitude sucks.

Well, I'm going to fix it. I'm going to enjoy the people in my life, and take time to take care of myself in a way that is positively motivated. I'm going to enjoy taking care of myself, instead of feeling like it's something to check off my to-do list.

Here's to being happier.

Mommy Peeyooked.

Yesterday, rather than waking up early to run before the littles woke up, I decided to run when I returned home from work at noon. Upon walking in the door, I discovered that one little was asleep, so I made a mad dash to eat some lunch, and then head out in the 90 degree heat. This was considered cool compared to previous days, and after running in the early morning, the lower humidity made it seem almost paradisiacal.

So off I went. No goal in mind, just an easy run until I decided to turn around. I had my garmin on, but didn't look at it. My favorite kind of run.

All was well until about a mile and a half before I returned home. My stomach started acting up, and I felt myself needing to cough. Uh oh.

Then, with about a mile before making it back home, I stopped in some shade and peeyooked.

What a waste of avocado.

On the bright side, I felt pretty hardcore in spite of making it an easy run.

Super Model Stomach!

I recently went on a group run-- my first since having #3. It was only a 5k, so I arrived early to get a couple of miles in prior, and planned to do another couple after. What I discovered, though, was that the group run went over campus, up some stairs that climbed a very steep hill, and then down one of campus' super steep hills, only to go down a block and come back up a super steep hill. Then back through campus, and up another long hill.

Hills.

I should get used to them, since my goal is to PR at a half marathon in October that is very hilly. But I've decided to work on my mileage now until my half next month (oy, less than four weeks from now), and then do some speed work/hills afterward. It's a happy little delusional reality I've created where I'll be totally fine in October, and I don't have to worry about doing the hard, hurty stuff yet.

However, I discovered something interesting when doing this run. I'm the personality type where I don't stop to walk-- EVER-- my pride won't let me. Do you know what trumps pride? A complete lack of core.

And apparently, after three kids, the abdominal muscles are not as strong as they used to be without doing some serious core work, which I have not.

I completely lacked the middle strength to hold myself upright when attempting to run up the hills. Out of genuine fear of crumpling into a heap on the ground, I had to walk.

So I posed the question-- eight weeks post baby, what kind of core work can I be doing to get in hill shape, and how often? The responses were mostly really informative, and I headed over to the library to pick up some workout dvds for cross training. However, I was so pleased with myself when some of the responses did not address strength at all-- instead, they addressed the appearance of the core. They spoke of how women are entirely too hard on themselves after they have a baby, and to give it time and allowance to heal and recover before you expect to look a certain way.

I was pleased because my motivation was not about how my core looks (though a flat tummy would not be turned away). My true motivation in posing the question was getting my core to a place where I could perform better-- it wasn't about appearing a certain way, but about being able to do a certain thing. I want function. I want strength. I want to be faster, stronger, less of a falling hazard.

I love running. I love where it's brought me. This is a world away from where I was seven years ago.

Hooray.

Race Report: Freedom Run, July 4th

I know, I'm late. I'm going to keep playing the "I have a new baby!" card as long as I can (2 months old today!).

When I signed up for the Freedom Run 5k, I wasn't expecting anything. It was seven weeks to the day after #3 was born, and I was really just eager to get a race under my belt to maintain my team status with our local running shop. The race was in a town about a half hour away, and I had to be there by 6:30 a.m. at the latest for packet pick-up. My darling husband insisted the entire family go, which meant the kids would be getting up at 5:30, and he'd be watching all three of them while I raced. God bless him!

We went to bed the night before way too late, and woke up at midnight with our middle child vomiting. He got a bath, the bed had to be stripped and made, so when the alarm went off early the next morning, feeling energetic was difficult. But that was okay! All of my favorite boys were coming to cheer me on! How could I not be tickled?

After arriving and picking up my packet, and doing the dance of having to get out my nervous-pre-race-pee while also getting my three year old to the bathroom amongst all the other racers with their pre-race-bathroom routines, I headed out to the start line to prep for the run. My goal was to get sub-25, which was not exactly a PR, but would be swift with what I'd been running lately. I jogged around the parking lot once, and felt ready to go. The husband informed me that this was not an adequate warm-up. I reminded him that I never warmed up, and then he reminded me that I'm getting old. Thanks, love. "The shorter the race, the longer the warm-up needs to be." Okay, fine. So off I went to run up and down some streets to get my legs and ankles warm. I wasn't too worried about it-- the race was advertised as very flat, so I just needed to pound out some quick miles-- the suffering would be short lived.

I'd like to go on record as saying that the people organizing the race are, in fact, liars. That course was about as flat as my post-partum belly.

And please tell me I'm not the only person completely incapable of accurately gauging where in the start line I should be. I always underestimate myself, so I end up having to weave in and out of people to get to people running my pace. It's not awful, because I find passing people to be a nice little ego boost, but it does affect my efficiency and hinder my kick at the end with the unnecessary depletion in energy.

Anyway. Started way too far back. I figured an 8 minute pace would get me what I wanted, so allowed for a little bit slower the first mile to get into the groove. A flat course meant I'd be able to adjust the last two miles no problem to get the average pace I was seeking. About a mile and a half in, though, I discovered the deception of the race description, and was kicking myself-- I'd warmed up better than I had for any other race, I didn't need to take it so easy the first mile. Regardless, I reminded myself that it was only a 5k, so I could suffer outside of my comfort zone (I think that idea makes sense only to people in endurance sports) to reach my goal. I was hurting, but I could make it! I was going to do it!

I made it around the last bend before the slight uphill to the finish line, and tried to give it my last kick. I wasn't looking at my Garmin, or the clock above the finish line. I was in the zone. I was going to do it! I was going to make it! I was-- HOLY CRAP THERE IS A DEAD GUY IN THE FINISHING CHUTE.

Okay. So he wasn't dead. But a roughly 70 year old man had apparently recently face planted into the pavement by the finishing barriers, and I did a little dance (both physically and mentally)-- do I stop and help him? I didn't see him fall. I didn't know how long he'd been down. The finish line was RIGHT THERE-- so do I finish and come back? There are tons of people around, so is someone coming? As I debated this in my head, a couple of official looking people rushed to his side, and I opted to let someone who actually knew what they were doing help him out and finish.

Official finish time? 25:04.

So. Close.

Again, wasn't expecting much, other than my little goal and getting a race done. The husband insisted I look at the placing, since medals were given to the top five in each age group. I laughed, as my PR of 22:39 got me second in that tiny 5k, there was no way a 25:04 would get top five in a race as large as this.

And what do you know? 25:04 was apparently good enough for third.

I was happily tooting my own horn, admiring my medal, when the husband so kindly reminded me:

"Yeah, but if that guy who was old enough to almost die doing a 5k hadn't ALMOST DIED, he would have beat you."

Thank you, sir.

"You look amazing!"

We feel compelled to say it.

"You look great!"

Even if it's true, there's something that feels a little forced behind it. Even if it's true, we feel this insane urge to put words on it, to vocalize it, because there is a piece of us that recognizes the importance in looking great. There is value in looking great. And, in saying so, we are adding to the value placed in looking great.

So when I hear, "You look amazing!", another egg is placed in that basket. When all compliments are derived from looking better than average, the basket gets heavy. And look at the other baskets-- they're so lonely, so empty. Just a couple eggs in the "You're a great mom!", or "You're brilliant!", or "Holy smokes, those are beautiful cupcakes!" baskets (Or no eggs in that last one, because I honestly cannot make a pretty cupcake. Delicious, yes, but not pretty). The eggs are missing from the "You are so thoughtful", "You do great things," and the "You show so much passion" baskets.

Then I wake up. And I see a zit. Or I need a hair cut. Or my shirt creeps up, and I see the saggy, stretchy skin that screams post-partum.

And the basket tips over, and my eggs of self worth are scrambled.

Those eggs were misguided. So don't tell me I look amazing. Tell me I AM amazing. Unless you don't think I am-- then don't say anything. Because when you tip over a basket with no eggs in it, it makes a much, much smaller mess.

Our new mini-van.

Seats four babes (including a car seat).

Thank goodness my husband is such a workhorse.

Feeling good.

It didn't start off as a long run.

"I'll do four."

That was the plan. With no water in hand, getting in a good, speedy four miles would be sufficient for a morning run. Rising before the clock said 6 a.m., the air was thick but slightly cooler than warm. For this time of year, that was the best that could be expected.

The "four" route is an out and back, with the turn around at a stop sign in the midst of a very rural stretch. The elevation change is zero, but the road is less than flat-- one must decide between avoiding cars or avoiding knee pain. At that hour, there were few cars to avoid, though, so in the middle, I ran.

Stop sign. Feeling good. Keep going? Sure. I'll make it a "six" instead.

When I looked down at my Garmin, I saw the three tick by, indicating a good time to turn around. But I still felt good. And I had time. Time for me. Time for music. Time for thinking.

The next turn around point I've established before was 4.5 miles away from my front gate. Did I have it in me?

Even if my legs decided later that they didn't, my heart said go.

So I went. And around, I turned. When I looked down and saw the five tick by, my legs started to argue. Too soon since having #3. Not enough build. But the air was cool, I was alone, and I felt strong. This was for me.

A couple hills later. A stop at a water fountain. Nine miles completed.

For me. Not only because I can, but because I decided to do it. Decided to do something for me, to edify and uplift me.

I'm starting to recognize that I'm worth it.

BEING vs. APPEARING

There's a lot of frustration that comes after having a baby.

I'm not even talking about the taking-care-of-a-newborn part (though, to be fair, babe #3 has shown to be ridiculously easy, so I could be ignoring that frustration because I'm fortunate enough to not have any right now). Personally, as I've experienced with each kid, my baby is born-- and I can't remember life without them. This is wonderful, fulfilling, and warms my being in every way-- except for when I look in the mirror.

You see, when you feel like your baby has been with you forever, you forget that you gave birth four weeks ago, and you need to give yourself time to let your body heal, recover, and restore-- and instead, you look at the sagging stomach, the loose skin, and hear the angry voice in your head telling you that looking six months pregnant is only adorable if you're actually pregnant.

Okay, maybe not "you," necessarily. Me. I. I do all those things, say all those things, hate myself for all those things.

And it's ridiculous. I just had a baby! Not even a month ago. And while I've been exercising for two weeks now, most people actually give their bodies the full six weeks after before starting to work out again, and I'm jumping the gun on fitness and expectations. It's hard to ignore the whispers of the old eating disorder in my head, telling me how my worth is determined by numbers-- on the scale, on the tag inside my clothing, of compliments about how people "can't believe!" I just had a baby.

So how do I ignore them? The whispers, that is. It'd be easy to let them fester. Looking at any magazine at the grocery store, I read promises of tips to "Get toned for summer!", "Get that slammin' beach bod!", all while ranking celebrities based entirely on how they look in a swimsuit, whether they're "deathly thin!" or have "cellulite?!?!!!". Women in power are not celebrated for their decisions or their accomplishments-- instead, there is a commentary on their hair style, what shoes they chose to wore, or if they've gained a few pounds. There is so much pressure on women to appear-- and how they appear seems to speak more loudly than who they are.

To silence the whispers, I instead choose to BE. I'm a mom. A wife. A runner. A social worker. A cook. I clean, I read, I lift weights. I love music, and dancing with my kids in my living room. I love learning about dinosaurs with my almost-three-year-old. I eat the way I eat and exercise, not to appear a certain way, but to improve my chances of being able to do the things I love for a little bit longer. I do it because it feels good when I do, and feels crappy when I don't. I do it because it's healthy, and my body deserves to be treated well.

I was laying on the floor next to babe #3 when my almost-three-year-old sat on my legs. He pulled my shirt up to expose my belly-- my stretch marked, saggy, squishy belly-- and started to mold it in his hands like playdough. My instinctual reaction was to cover my stomach, to hide away the part of me that makes the whispers louder, when my almost-three-year-old stopped and said, "Mommy, (babe #3) was in your belly. And (my eighteen month old) was in your belly. And I was in your belly. We all lived in your belly."

A thought crossed my mind. If a magical fairy elf or whatever floated down and said, "With a wave of this wand, I can make your stomach back to what it was. I can make it so you can have children without the stress it puts on your body. Never again will you have to worry about a pooch, stretched out skin, or awkward muffin tops when trying to put pants on." Eagerly, I'd want to accept-- but she'd continue-- "You will have three children-- but not these three. You won't have these children."

The whispers went away, for that moment. Instead, I felt immense gratitude for the opportunity to be. To be Mom to three precious little boys.

My tensed muscles relaxed. I smiled at him, and said, "Yup. You all lived in my belly. Aren't I so lucky?"

Stabby.

The elliptical and a pretty rockin' playlist have been my daily dose of therapy lately. Kansas is many things, and one of those things is certainly predictable. Just when the weather feels lovely, pleasant, ideal-- you can guarantee that it will only last a few days before the next extreme comes out to play. Spring? Autumn? Around here, those seasons are limited to a week between freakishly freezing cold to unbearably sticky hot. So when I start to get back into running, it's too hot to go later than 6 a.m. And with a newborn who hasn't quite figured out the sleeping-at-nighttime thing, 6 a.m. and I aren't exactly speaking.

And being just shy of four weeks post partum, my hips could use a little more transitioning.

So the elliptical is my friend.

Its placement in our home was determined based on my initial desire to watch Netflix while exercising. However, my brain has been programmed to use my sweat time as processing time, and I have yet to find a movie that can keep up with my thoughts. Instead, I blast some power music-- songs that go with how I'm feeling, and sweat out the icky stuff while I rock out.

While I was doing this last night, though, the icky stuff didn't leave. Instead, a thought traversed across my brain, and stopped right in the middle. It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't leave, and it made me angry. You see, for the past couple years, I've been dealing with a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that I won't go into detail about, but that stuff has resulted in a lot of angry miles run, a lot of tearful journaling, and far too many chocolate chips consumed (to the extent that my almost-three-year-old refers to chocolate chips as "mommy medicine"). One of the things that I've been dealing with that relates to the sticky thought, though, was that someone close to me touched my physically, repeatedly, in a way that made me very uncomfortable (Harassment? Assault? It's all too complicated to even label-- "inappropriate" is what I've landed on). A people pleaser at heart, I didn't speak up. In all the training and experiencing I have advocating for other people, helping them to find their voice, I was stifling mine and experiencing intense misery as a result. It got to where I was having a physically-ill response whenever I was around this person, and escalated to the point when I couldn't be quiet anymore. Finding my voice six months ago, I finally spoke up, and put a stop to what was happening. Unfortunately, it also resulted in a lot of people whom I thought cared about me calling me a liar.

Stress. Frustration. Recurrent trauma.

Anyway. I was processing a lot of what was going on while sweating stuff out, and something popped up-- Justice. What would justice look like? As I turned that over and over in my mind, my strides per minute increased, my feet stomped angrily, and my random air guitars became more intense. Because as I was mulling over this idea, I realized that there is no such thing in this situation-- no matter what happens, he will still have made me feel dirty, cheap, worthless, objectified, and nothing will undo that.

It made my heart ache. Not only for my pain, but also in thinking about anyone who had been raped, sexually assaulted, sexually harassed-- no matter what happened (and usually, nothing does in terms of consequences for the perpetrator's actions), it won't undo the icky feelings. Time, therapy, and processing can bring healing-- but nothing will rewind time and make that icky in that space of history go away.

My therapist is helping me to find my voice. For too long, I've sat with the idea that I can't tell someone they don't have the right to touch me if I don't want them to. I have to be polite, kind, respectful-- and that means letting other people do to me whatever they want. So I'm taking these feelings-- these stabby, angry, frustrated, unvalidated feelings-- and fueling the fire behind my voice.

And that voice is feeling pretty awesome lip syncing to Glee on the elliptical.

REWARD: Missing Legs

After my first was born, I waited a week before I went running again. A month of bed rest about did me in, and I was eager to get back out on the pavement.

My first run was 20 minutes, and I went about a mile and a half (June in the Midwest is unforgiving with the heat).

With my second, my husband let slip to the midwife what I had done after the previous pregnancy, and she told me under NO uncertain terms am I to run prior to three weeks after the birth (something about hormones in the body or whatever). So I waited three weeks.

My second was a December baby, and waiting didn't seem that difficult. I thought it would be easy to follow the same guidelines this time around.

Nope.

Having a May baby means I mentally/emotionally/spiritually/anythingly cannot wait three weeks.

Thirteen days out? I'll just do yoga. That's no big deal, right? And it'll be good for working out the kinks that settled in during pregnancy and delivery. It's totally fine that it's P90X2 yoga, right?

Two weeks out. Yoga was nice, but I think I can do more. What P90X2 workout falls on Thursdays?

Fifteen days out. Since I did Yoga on Wednesday instead of Friday, I'll switch the days, but that would make today a rest day...

"I think I'm going to go running."

My husband: "Will you be less grumpy if you do?"

Bless him.

It was overcast. The air was a little thick from the previous night's rain, with a hint of a cool breeze. It was perfect and beautiful. My ipod was loaded with new songs, and I was dance-running on the rural roads near my house. The out and back was four miles, and I promised my husband I'd turn around when my body said I needed to quit. My brain was too elated with the run that I simply. Could. Not. Stop.

My pelvis and my brain were at odds with one another.

When I hit the stop sign that indicated I needed to turn around, my hip flexors seemed tight enough to be engraved. The two miles back home seemed long and difficult-- a far cry from the marathon training I was in the midst of when I got my positive pregnancy test.

I looked down at my ipod. Flipped it to a new song.

I dance-ran the whole way home.

It's good to be (on my way) back.

My charm.

"Any contractions?" my husband asked. It was 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, May 16th, and I sighed, exasperated into the phone.

"Not a thing. This babe is never coming out." My due date was only just the day before, but having spent an entire day with early labor the previous Monday that resulted in me progressing to a 7, I was convinced that the baby would come ANY SECOND. The midwife assured me that because it was my third, and I was already progressed so far, my water could break any minute, and the baby would be coming immediately after. Tuesday, I'd called into work, certain I'd have a baby that day. A couple bouts of intense contractions later, resulting in our midwife coming Tuesday evening and the wee hours of Wednesday morning, resulted in me still being pregnant.

I was going to be pregnant forever.

I had spent Wednesday evening very tearful, frustrated with my body. I couldn't run. I couldn't play with my kids. I couldn't help around the house. I was exhausted, uncomfortable, and so close to having the baby-- and yet so far. My emotional health was depleted. There wasn't much left for me to hang onto.

I hung up with the husband and returned to my work. Orientation for the law students was the next week, and I needed to complete the powerpoint presentation I was convinced I'd still be pregnant for. Distracted by my enormousness, I texted a friend who was coming back into town that day from a two week trip-- one she'd left with the remark, "Don't have that baby until I get back!"

Me: You bewitched my uterus. Apparently this baby is waiting for you to return.
Her: That baby just already loves me!
Me: If I'm still pregnant tomorrow, will you go get a pedicure with me?
Her: Absolutely! And tell your uterus it has my permission to have that baby!

My brain was fried. No amount of focus could be squeezed from its cerebral folds. I looked around my office, saw the recently drained Nalgene bottle, and decided then was as good as time as any to go to the bathroom. I glanced at the clock-- 11:00 a.m.-- and waddled to the bathroom, contemplating what I was going to do with an hour left of work.

Sparing you all the details of my urination, I started to stand after doing my business, only to feel a *gush*. My heart skipped a beat-- was that my water? I looked down into the toilet-- the water was cloudy, not clear. When I stood up all the way, water was trickling down my leg.

My midwife's words were echoing through my head-- "Third baby." "Water breaks, he'll come right out!" "Scared I won't get to your house in time..."

HOLY CRAP. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY IN THE LAW SCHOOL BATHROOM.

Did I have time to wash my hands first? (Answer: Yes. Yes, and I did.)

I scurried back to my office (as much as I could, with his head now completely engaged and hurting me. A lot.), grabbed my bag, and locked up to head out. I called the husband, let him know what happened, and asked him to call the midwife. As I headed home, I called my boss to let her know that I'd left early, I wouldn't be in the next day, and that I had managed to not ruin my office chair (a grave concern for her). In the two times my water has broken outside of a hospital setting, I'd managed to have it break in the shower (my second babe), and now over a toilet. My amniotic sacs get the award for most-convenient-ruptures.

When I pulled into the driveway at home, I saw that the midwife had beaten me there. The husband was refilling the birthing tub (I glared at it-- it had better be the last time it was getting filled!), and the midwife was setting up my antibiotics. The husband then made us all some lunch, which I was able to consume without throwing up. This both delighted me and concerned me-- was this another false start? My water breaking meant that if my body didn't go into labor on its own, the clock was ticking, and I might have to go to the hospital. I'd had only a couple contractions, and nothing that indicated this was the real deal. What if my body doesn't--

OW.

Okay. Never mind. We're in business.

I'd been practicing Hypnobabies during my pregnancy, planning to use it while I was in labor. But these contractions didn't feel that bad. My first babe was induced with pitocin, and those contractions HURT. I was told that after pitocin contractions, natural labor felt like a walk in the park. Then I had my second babe, who was tangled up in his cord and caused me intense back labor for 18 hours. I wanted the pitocin contractions back. However, this third time around, these felt okay. Uncomfortable, increasingly hurty with each one, but not impossible. My midwife was absolutely amazing, and I adored her, and I preferred chatting with her over listening to Hypnobabies. Besides, plenty of time for that when transition came around, eh?

We hung out for a few hours. The husband put the kids down for a nap, and I labored in the tub. The midwife said she'd be calling her assistant soon (who had to trek from Topeka), which made me feel hopeful that things were moving along. Then, it happened-- transition.

"I'm going to put on my headphones now."

I finger dropped. I went to my safe place. I did all of the imagery and muscle relaxation I could muster. Then, the next contraction hit.

When it was over, I threw my iPod.

"Hypnobabies is stupid!"

The husband started gently stroking my hair. The midwife started rubbing an essential oil on my back that was HEAVENLY. As the babe moved down past my tail bone, my back muscles clenched up, and I felt completely defeated. This was supposed to be my easy labor, with no back labor! But when she rubbed the oil on me (and I'm definitely not on any essential oil bandwagon), my muscles relaxed enough for the pain to be tolerable.

"Uhh, you're not allowed to stop doing that. Ever."

As I continued to labor, the midwife told me her assistant, Kelly, would be coming soon, so not to be alarmed when she walked through my front door. Transition was on in full force, and I have no idea how my kids slept through my vocalization (the polite term for "yelling") in our tiny house, but they did. Just before 3:00, Kelly walked in, and in the middle of a contraction, I looked up, stopped yelling, and said, "Hi, Kelly!"-- then returned to yelling. Mama raised me right.

The contractions were getting to be pretty painful-- I think at one point I said I didn't want to do it anymore, but I'm happy to say that this time, I didn't ask for drugs. I evolved from the natural laborer who always begs for drugs, to the natural laborer who simply asks for a nap in the middle of transition. I'm pretty proud of that.

Then a contraction hit where my body could not find a tolerable position. It felt like a white, hot pain across my lower abdomen.

"Where does it hurt?" my midwife asked. When I showed her, she said, "Okay! I think you need to go to the bathroom."

If I weren't attempting to curl into the fetal position in the tub without drowning myself, I would have given her a very dirty look. We had talked earlier about how she tells women she thinks they need to go to the bathroom to manipulate them into changing positions when they aren't willing to.

"I'm not changing positions. I'm not moving."

"No, I think you need to empty your bladder!" she said, all too chipperly.

"FINE." I was less polite at this point. I was also pretty sure that having experienced contractions for several minutes now where I felt like pushing was my only way to get through them, my bladder was empty (and that water was probably gross).

I made it to the toilet before the next contraction hit. The husband sat in front of me.

"I don't want to do this again. This really hurts." The husband, who had been making jokes and checking Strava earlier in labor, just nodded. Good job, sir.

The next contraction, I knew he was coming. Feeling a bit of panic, though, I remembered when I was pushing on the toilet with my second babe, and the midwife (a different midwife) told me I had to move to the bed-- I couldn't have the baby on the toilet. Worried they'd make me move again, I resolved not to tell anyone there was a human being coming out of my vagina at that moment. They'd have to figure it out.

At this point, I went to some other place in my brain, because I don't really remember much of what happened. The husband had to tell me later. Apparently, I reached down, and the midwife said, "Can you feel him?" I apparently confirmed, and she said, "Just push him into your hand." The midwife grabbed one arm, Kelly the other, and they lifted me up. After the next contraction, his head was out. With the next, his body. The husband caught him.

My third, my charm, came wiggling out in the world just over the toilet-- which was fitting, since that was how labor started. He weighed 8 lbs, 6 oz, and was covered in vernix. When the vernix soaked into his skin, we could see that he was also born with a head full of hair.

I moved to the couch, snuggling his happy little body. After I was situated and cleaned up, both of my other boys woke up to meet their new baby brother. It worked out perfectly-- a four hour labor, and the other chitluns slept through half of it-- the hard half.

The midwife checked to see how I did with delivery, and announced that I had two tiny paper cut tears that didn't even need stitches. My heart smiled-- Three weeks until I could run again!

This all happened sixteen days ago-- May 16th-- and I still cannot get enough snuggles with this boy. Love. Him.

We rock at making little boys.

Boston.

Our first child is named after a famous cyclist. Most people don't know that, and really, I wouldn't have known that his name is shared with a famous cyclist if it weren't for my cycling obsessed hubby. But since he started it, I'd toyed with the idea of naming other kids after my fitness obsession. A couple names crossed my mind-- Miles. Brooks.

Boston.

A little less than a year ago, I started training for my first marathon. Eventually, the race ended up not happening due to an injury, but as I was logging 35 miles a week, the idea of running a marathon became less of a fantasy and seemed so tangible. So plausible. Something that would happen, rather than something that might happen. And it still will happen. And while I was daydreaming about that day, I fantasized about getting to coveted BQ.

And when I do get the BQ, I'll be there. Every child I have, a gift I give myself after is a half marathon. And I had already envisioned that the gift I'd give myself after my final pregnancy would be a marathon where I would get my BQ, and our entire family would go out to see me race.

My sister texted me this morning. "Don't run the Boston Marathon."

Yesterday, I felt so much anger. So much distress. Never in a million years would it even have crossed my mind to fear for the safety of my husband and children as they waited at a finish line to support me in something that is so dear to who I am. Yesterday changed that. It forever changed that.

But it won't stop me. Whoever did this will not be allowed to take anything more than what has already been taken.

My heart is in Boston today.

Eager Baby.

Quick background on my attitudes toward the healthcare system in terms of pregnancy and levels of intervention: My mom had C-sections with all four of her kids, I assumed I was set for the same fate. Then I went to college and read an article in an anthropology class about the high rates of C-sections when they were not completely necessary, and that got me thinking. Checked out "Misconceptions" by Naomi Wolf, read it cover to cover, and sought out the closest birthing center with my first pregnancy. Developed pre-eclampsia, was put on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy and had to be induced and delivered at the hospital. Second pregnancy, did a home birth and rocked the pants off it. This third pregnancy, I'm planning a home birth, and working with a new midwife (was a midwife at the birthing center I went to for my first pregnancy) who is more medically inclined than the midwife I worked with in my last pregnancy.

Follow all of that?

Anyway.

Friday morning, I woke up and started getting ready for work. I noticed some pretty intense, painful contractions, but I hopped in the shower anyway, figuring they were just Braxton Hicks and I was being a pansy. However, I noticed that I kept cranking the hot water over until it couldn't get any hotter to try to get some relief when one of these "pansy" contractions happened, and then I vomited. Uhhh... no bueno. As I'm fumbling around, trying to find clothes to wear to work (curse having a meeting scheduled so I couldn't go with my comfy maternity jeans that were allowed on Fridays!), the darling husband took the liberty of timing the contractions.

"They're three minutes apart. Don't go to work."

I explained that I HAD to go to work. The meeting, 30 minutes out of town, was important, and they were providing LUNCH. THAT was enough to go. I gasped out that reasoning, however, as I was rocking on my hands and knees trying desperately to get through the painful contraction.

At 35 weeks, this was not a good place to be in. The babe needs a little more time to cook.

I headed to work anyway, and barely made it up to my office (did you know it takes more than three minutes for me to get from my car up to my office? I do, now, because I had a contraction getting out of the car, and then again before I collapsed into my chair). As I sat, just minutes from having to get up and leave to go to the meeting, I started shaking uncontrollably from how uncomfortable I was. I called my supervisor and explained what was going on, and that perhaps I shouldn't go to the meeting ("It would be awkward if my water broke in your nice car"), and she told me to go home. So I did. And spent all day on the couch, on the ball, in the bathtub, anywhere and everywhere trying to get relief from the contractions. Sent a text to the midwife when they didn't die down by the early afternoon, and as she was out of state on vacation with her family, she decided to try to get me an appointment with the doctor she works through. When that wasn't going through, she wanted me to go to the ER to get checked.

I looked at Bobby. "Nope." I'd had enough false starts with my second babe that I was not about to go in and go through the hassle of all that to be told that this was nothing. In a few hours, it would die down, and I'd be fine.

Fast forward to the next morning, where I was still having contractions every three minutes and didn't sleep the night before, I finally conceded. Something was going on, and I was willing to go in even if it meant just finding out I had a UTI and had to go on an antibiotic or something. Anything to make the contractions stop was better than just dealing with them (oh, and the possibility that the baby was going to come too early. However, that didn't seem like such a threat, because of all the false starts with the last pregnancy).

The husband dropped the kids off at with friends, and came back to retrieve me. We went to the hospital, got checked in, and the nurse (who was super nice) got me hooked up to monitors and asked all the medical history stuff. No big deal.

Was monitored. Contracted. Did my thing, only did it without the guilt of being a terrible mother because I knew my kids were hanging out with their buddies playing outside instead of trying to climb on their grumpy mom who didn't want anyone to touch her.

After a while, the nurse came in with a cup and an order from the doctor. The cup was to pee in to test for a UTI. The order from the doctor was to give me a shot of Terbutaline. Having never heard of that before, the conversation went a lot like this:

Me: What is that?
Nurse: It's a smooth muscle relaxant. It should relax your muscles and stop the contractions.
Me: Are there any side effects? Will it do anything to him (the baby)?
Nurse: Well, it will probably make your heart race, so in turn, it will make his heart race.
Me: So it won't have any negative effects on him?
Nurse: Nope! And we usually give three doses, but the doctor just wants to try one injection and see how that works for you.
Me: I'd like to talk to my husband about it first and see if that's something we're comfortable with.

She left the cup, and as I went to do what preggos do best and attempt to aim a cup around a gigantic belly close enough to get urine in it, the husband pulled out his laptop and looked up the medication. Immediately, he came across this:

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is warning the public that injectable terbutaline should not be used in pregnant women for prevention or prolonged treatment (beyond 48-72 hours) of preterm labor in either the hospital or outpatient setting because of the potential for serious maternal heart problems and death.

Now, call me old fashioned, but I would think his mother potentially dying would probably have a negative affect on the babe. That could just be me thinking too highly of myself, though.

Terbutaline is approved to prevent and treat bronchospasm (narrowing of airways) associated with asthma, bronchitis, and emphysema. The drug is sometimes used off-label (an unapproved use) for acute obstetric uses, including treating preterm labor and treating uterine hyperstimulation. Terbutaline has also been used off-label over longer periods of time in an attempt to prevent recurrent preterm labor.

Again, this may be nit-picky, but I feel like there should be some kind of obligation by medical professionals to say something along the lines of, "Oh, bee tee dubs, this medicine we want to give you to treat this? Not even really supposed to, according to the FDA. No big deal, though, we do it all the time." I hear all these awful stories about how insurance won't cover treatment for people because it's too experimental, but they're hunky dorey with covering an intervention that the FDA doesn't even approve of? How is that consistent? (slash ethical?)

So when the nurse returned to retrieve the pee cup (hit my target, thank you very much), she asked what we had decided with the shot. I told her it was something I wasn't comfortable with.

Fast forward an hour or so, and she returned to check to see if I was progressing (I wasn't), and said that the urine test indicated it could be a UTI. So did I want to go ahead and get the antibiotic called into the pharmacy, or would I rather wait until they ran the 24 hour culture? As a person who isn't huge on taking antibiotics just for kicks and giggles, I told her I'd wait.

As she went through the discharge instructions, she discussed all the things I needed to look for to come back in again. One thing she stressed was that if I developed a fever, I needed to get in immediately, as babe #3's heart rate was measuring at the high end of normal, and a fever would increase his heart rate-- making him tachycardic, which would be dangerous. (This is the part where you remember back to when, just a couple hours prior, they were trying to inject me with a medication that they were pretty certain would increase my son's heart rate). She then told me that the doctor would call me the next day to let me know the results of the urine culture, and off we went. It was 2:00 p.m. Saturday, which I noted so I could anticipate about when to expect the phone call the next day.

Sunday evening rolls around, and while I was still contracting, they seemed to be easing off a bit in intensity. I was trying to hydrate like it was my job, and entertain myself on the couch, when I got a text message from the midwife letting me know she was back in town, and wanted to know how I was doing. I gave her an update, and told her I was still waiting to hear about the culture. She texted back to say they may not have it done yet, and she'd call the lab to see. She calls back a minute or two later and lets me know that my culture was totally normal, and I didn't need any antibiotics. She then told me something that reinforced why I absolutely adore my decision to use a midwife:

"You know, you could have gotten a virus. Or a bad night's sleep. Or you were dehydrated, and vomiting made you more dehydrated, and that kicked up the contractions. Or your body just likes to practice before you go into labor, as you saw with your last one. I don't know. I can't pretend to know, because the human body has surprised me so many times that I stopped making guesses when I just don't know."

I just don't know.

Instead of assigning diagnoses or reasons for why something is happening when there is no idea, wouldn't it be great if people in medical professions could just say "I don't know"? The doctor didn't know why I was contracting, and rather than go with that until there was a known reason, I was having medications thrown at me that could have negative effects on myself and my child. And for what reason? So I would be more confident in her practice? So she could feel like she was doing something in a situation she didn't feel she had control over? When I told my midwife about the terbutaline, she told me, "Oh, that stuff makes you feel crazy. I can't imagine how getting that would have made you feel any better than you were feeling in that moment." Awesome.

I am completely for hospital interventions to save people's lives. I am grateful for the experience I had in my first pregnancy, and while there are some things I would change about what happened (I had no idea internal monitoring meant they'd put a BARB in my son's HEAD, because nobody told me!), it was still a really great experience and I felt like we were well taken care of. I was sick and needed to be there to make sure both my son and I were healthy and safe. However, there comes a point where virtue turns to vice, and when we stop questioning the things that happen because we dare not approach the pedestal we've placed medical professionals upon, I think things get sloppy as a result of the lack of accountability.

In a the age of google, it's a privilege to be able to say, "Let me explore that first." With tablets and smartphones and tiny laptops, that information is so easy to get to anywhere we are. Let's take advantage. Let the accountability come back.

And in case you were wondering, the fact that this kiddo still can do a roundhouse ninja sequence in the midst of an intense contraction means he's pretty hardcore. I'm not too worried about him.

Honey Eatin' Almost Vegan

I promise-- I will blog regularly when I'm running again. The other day, I actually sat down and made out my workout schedule for after this baby arrives, and it made me feel so much better about life. Having that little sheet of paper with a plan written out helped me feel like I was still doing something, even though, technically, I'm not really doing anything (other than, you know, growing a human).

The doing nothing-ness was weighing on me. But I was so tired, and my body just felt heavy. I was irritable. Grumpy. My body hurt, and my brain felt cloudy. Ugh, pregnancy, right?

So the husband came home from work last week, the chitluns were in bed, and we decided to watch something on Netflix. Unable to find something that wasn't depressing/raunchy/violent, we settled on Forks Over Knives, which I'd wanted to watch for a while.

Not the best thing to watch after you've just gone grocery shopping.

The husband and I have been pretty good eaters. For a while, I was even vegetarian, and gave it up when I ran into complications with my first pregnancy, attributing it to the lack of protein. I've gone for long spurts of no sugar, and then gone back to sugar, and then off, and then back-- and I know I feel better when I'm not eating it, but I used pregnancy as an excuse. I'm so uncomfortable and giant anyway, why not, right? It's one of those life pleasures that I can still enjoy when so much else is taken off the table (like running. Or wearing clothing that fits and doesn't make me feel like a sack of fabric). The husband has a degree in Exercise Science, and he was in the process of applying for graduate school in Health and Psychology of Physical Activity. We ate only whole grains, lots of fruits and veggies, no trans fats or corn syrup. Doing pretty well.

But then we learned about The China Study.

And there went dairy. And meat.

As soon as the movie was over, I looked over at the husband and said, "Well, that's that. Let's do this." We both knew we needed a boost, something to get us back to eating what and how we knew we should. We'd gotten lazy with both of us working and never seeing each other, having two toddlers, and my pregnancy. So the next day, we stocked up on almond milk, more fruits and veggies, and beans, hoping to stick to the information we were reminded of regarding the benefits of sticking to a whole foods, plant based diet.

I had some anxiety. I knew the first three days after giving up sugar are the hardest, and I had become pretty dependent on my chocolate fix. But it was actually surprisingly easy. I noticed a difference after the first day-- I felt satiated longer, my mood was better, and while I still was sleepy at the end of the day, I didn't feel heavy. I didn't feel cloudy. I didn't run out of patience at bed time.

My joints even felt better.

I have been so surprised by how much better I feel over all. Prone to depression and anxiety, which seems to heighten with pregnancy hormones, I feel a lot like I've taken a Prozac-- I just feel level, normal, better able to see the happy. The stress is gone. The irritability is gone. The desire to slap someone is gone.

I feel awesome.

I'd heard from fellow runners that giving up dairy has done wonders for their performance, and I was considering doing it for that reason. Since I'm not able to run right now, it seemed silly to do it until after the baby is born. But if I had known that making this change was going to be such a boost to my mood, I would have done it long ago. Sticking to eating this way has proven so far to be very easy, because I'm so motivated to keep feeling this great. Thirty-four weeks pregnant and feeling great? Yes, please.

My concerns about the kids were that they would not adjust well to eating this way. We haven't been terrible with what they eat, but they do like their cheese and yogurt. The almost-three-year-old also drank his weight in milk every day, which was pretty much his only intake. But they have actually done so well with the transition-- they eat the stuff we're eating, and they love it. I made a giant salad, and actually thought, "There is now way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." It worked out well, though, because my little birds were at my feet, begging for another bite. SALAD.

It's wonderful.

I have also made these a couple times, and they've been a hit with the chitluns (and the adults-- a batch doesn't last a day in our house). Easy peasy, and so great to just grab and go!

No Bake Peanut Butter Balls

2 C raw oats
3/4 C peanut butter (all natural-- we also used almond butter in a batch, and SO YUMMY)
1/4 C honey
1/4 C flaxseed
1 t vanilla
1 C craisins (or chocolate chips, or raisins, or nuts, or whatever you want)

Mix all together in a bowl. Put in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden. Mold mixture into balls. Ready to eat right away!

Love it. I'm feeling good about all of this.

Ahhhhh.

Courage.

Yes. My blogging has been minimal. But so has my energy level.

In spite of pounding iron supplements like they're candy, I have not been able to restore my level of perkiness back to pre-pregnancy ideals, which, I guess, was a little too optimistic of me to hope for in the first place. Having two toddlers who need to be entertained indoors until the weather warms up a bit has been physically draining on me, and no amount of alfalfa tablets will rectify that truth.

In spite of all of the fatigue, I had still managed to maintain my routine of 200 minutes per week on the elliptical, along with some light weight lifting. I was pleased with my fitness, and daydreamed of continuing this routine for the remainder of my pregnancy (all 9ish weeks of it), hoping I'd be in a really great place for getting back into running. My previous pregnancies had left me abandoning an exercise routine a month or so before I delivered, and I was determined for that to not be the case this time.

Then, last week happened. Emily (my amazing midwife) has her clients go to the doctor once during third trimester in case of an emergency transfer down the road-- the paperwork is in, they have a chart for me, and the transition would be less difficult that way. When I went into the exam room, with my husband and two chitluns accompanying, the nurse did the usual-- blood pressure, medical history, and then asked me to step on the digital scale.

No big deal, right?

I didn't think so, even though just a few weeks prior I'd told Emily, who had asked if I could go weigh myself, that I'd rather not. Emily, being amazing and wonderful, said that was fine. I explained that I had a history of disordered eating, and getting on a scale when I'm pregnant is really triggering for me.

So I stepped on the digital scale, and looked down to report the number to the nurse. Happy happy joy joy, my belly prevented me from seeing the number before the nurse did, and she said, "Okay, hop off." She didn't say the number out loud, and I didn't ask.

Unfortunately, my belly did not obscure my view of my husband, who was sitting right next to the scale, and I saw him see the number.

Something inside of me died.

Perhaps it's the hormones, or just being in a vulnerable place because of what pregnancy does to my body image (which isn't super great to start off with, anyway). My husband has done nothing to suggest I am anything less than beautiful to him. He is supportive, loving, and very sensitive to my body image issues. In spite of recognizing all of that, however, seeing him see the number made a part of me feel like he now had ammunition to stop loving me.

That was a hard thing to sit with for a few days.

Physically, I continued doing the right things. Eating well, taking my vitamins, and I didn't start exercising excessively. What I did recognize, though, was that my body was struggling a little with being this pregnant. My back hurt. My hips felt achy. I could fall asleep at any point of any day because of the exhaustion that was overwhelming me. Any other person experiencing these things, I would say, "Cut back on working out! Your body is working hard enough to grow a baby." But I couldn't give myself that kind of allowance. To stop exercising was to give in to what that number said, to accept it, and to let it erase any value I might have. So while externally, nothing changed about my behavior, emotionally, I went to a bad place.

Wednesday, we went to have a sonogram done. It was a free scan, one done by someone who had just graduated from a sonography program using volunteers to keep up her skills. I was eager to find out if I could go buy a bunch of too-enticing cute outfits on the girl side of Baby Gap, or if I could start calling the babe by the boy name we had picked out. As she went through the scan, we got to see the baby's face, and I wanted nothing more than to reach in and give this little child a hug. By the end of the scan, we discovered we are amazing at making little boys! My heart swelled, and I couldn't stop grinning.

So last night, while still on a high from seeing my tiny babe, I looked at the elliptical. I thought about how many days it had been since I exercised, and the tape of self-criticism started playing its loop in my head. The lumps and bulges I saw in the mirror that appeared from holding on to more fat to sustain a pregnancy screamed my inadequacy, my lack of self control, my diminished value. As I looked at the elliptical and contemplated donning my workout attire, though, I felt a soft little kick. And I realized, I'm tired. My body is exhausted. I played today with my children, and my body needs a break. My baby deserves a well rested body to grow and be strong in. And that is more important than whatever emotional benefits I would temporarily get from exercising in this moment.

So I didn't. I didn't exercise. And I didn't tell myself I was terrible for it.

And laying on the couch, I felt stronger than I've felt in a long time.

I have an idea (and I need your help).

A while ago (eons ago, it feels like, as anything pre-mommyhood seems like a completely different lifetime), I worked at an eating disorder clinic. I was a tech, which meant that I was with the girls and women receiving treatment throughout the nitty gritty parts of their day-- meal times, snack times, bed times, outings. I got to go to music therapy, sit through movies where we had the dreaded FNS (Friday Night Snack), and even jumped out of an absurdly tall tree. It was a weird job. It was a great job. I genuinely loved the gals I worked for, even the ones that made the job more interesting than usual.

I learned a lot while working there, but one of the hardest things for me to swallow was the variance in support these gals had outside of treatment. There were the ones that had the parents come every chance they had, and the goodbyes were tearful but encouraging. There were the ones whose parents were completely enmeshed in their daughter's treatment, sometimes in a co-dependent way, sometimes in a malicious way. Then there were the parents who weren't there at all.

That was the hard part.

Of course, it wasn't possible for a lot of them to come often. Girls were coming to treatment from all over the country (sometimes, the world), so travelling for every single Family Weekend would be asking a lot, especially on top of how much treatment cost. Some of the gals who fell into that category would get the phone calls, the letters, the packages. They'd get support in other ways.

Then there were the ones who would come to the nurse's station every day after the mail was sorted, and they would ask, "Did I get anything?" Or after the Saturday night outing, they'd come by the tech who stayed behind, and check to see if they had any missed calls. With their charts right there, and their family's contact information readily available, it was so hard not to pick up the phone and beg them to call their daughter, just once, so she knows that she is loved and isn't fighting this insanely difficult battle on her own. For whatever reason, it didn't register as something important for them to do. So instead, I spent the night of December 23 that year, working my overnight shift, covering my hands with papercuts and scissor slices from curling ribbon to wrap packages of random items (underwear, deoderant, stationery) so the patients who had been forgotten by family would get a Christmas.

Fast forward to now. A few days ago, there was an eating disorder clinic doing an outreach promotion on Facebook as a part of Eating Disorder Awareness week. Each day, they'd post a question, and the answer could be found in their resources section of their website. The first person to answer would get a $10 giftcard of their choice. I happened over right after they posted a question, found the answer quickly, and responded in time to qualify for one of the giftcards. Yay! I love winning things. They told me to email them my address and where I'd like the giftcard to be good for, and I immediately started brainstorming. There are some books that I want, so Amazon? I've also been drooling over some headbands on Etsy in the offhand chance this babe is a girl, so maybe there. Or I could use some more music on my iPod for when I start training after this baby is born, so an iTunes card would be nice. But every thought left me feeling empty. I was on the verge of just asking for a grocery store giftcard, because at least then it would help my family, when I sat down to email the gal and it came to me-- Instead of a giftcard for something I don't especially need, I asked if I could donate it back, and have a therapist or a tech at the clinic use it to go get something fun for one of the gals I described above-- someone who checks the nurse's station every day to see if there is something for her to show that she is loved. I had some anxiety about whether they would think it was a ridiculous idea or not, but they responded so enthusiastically that it got my brain going.

Which is where my idea comes in, and where you can help.

There are eating disorder clinics all over the country, and I'm willing to bet that at any given time, there is someone doing inpatient that fits the description above. One of the hardest parts of recovering from an eating disorder is getting to a place where you feel like you are worth fighting for-- that you deserve to be happy and healthy, and free from the disorder. Without any support outside the walls of the treatment center, it can feel impossible, and the motivation can disappear to even bother with doing the hard stuff. So here is, as my darling toddler would say, "my want-to": I want to put together TEN care packages to send to various eating disorder clinics throughout the USA that would provide a moment of hope to these gals who are struggling. But the idea I have in mind would be a lot more doable if I had my crafty friends on board-- because I'm the least crafty person in the world.

In the package, I want to put in a book (I'm thinking this one) and several postcards that they could hang up in their room, carry with them, etc-- that would say something along the following:

• You are brave.
• You are enough.
• You have the strength to get through today.
• You deserve happiness.
• You are worth fighting for.

You get the idea. So in my head, these cards are beautiful, and decorated, and have those fun chip board letters and decals and backgrounds and doilies and whatever to make them really nice to look at, as well as delivering a great message. I could do them, but I know they wouldn't be nearly as nice as something someone else with an ounce of talent could do, and could do ten of without pulling their hair out. So if you are one of these friends, and would be willing to do this (say, take one of those sayings and make 10 postcards of the same thing), I would be so grateful, and I think we could do something really great.

So what do you think? Are you in?

I have some beef with "freedom."

Yes, it's been a while. There was a delightful little stomach bug that went around, and we were fortunate enough to have it hit our family one member at a time (holy moly, taking on the puke train with multiple suppliers would have probably been the end of me). So while it took less effort at one time to tackle that delightful illness, it was spread out over a long enough period that I constantly felt the urge to both nap and shower at the same time. Unfortunately for me, the water heater is not large enough to acommodate such an endeavor (although, I guess this is quite fortunate for both our water bill and the children that I would undoubtedly be neglecting to engage in such an indulgence).

Anyhoo.

This past week marked an annual occasion that always leaves me on edge-- the distribution of the yearly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I'm proud to say that I have not stepped inside a grocery store over the past week (unless Costco counts, and since they don't have their magazines by the checkout, I don't count it). Having those images thrown at me against my will, as well as exposing my little boys to women presented as tools to achieve visual sexual stimulation, are not things I look forward to.

So I got excited when I saw this:

Grace Gregson, store manager of the Barnes and Noble SouthTowne Marketplace location, referred to the chain’s corporate censorship policy, which states in part: "Some customers may strongly oppose the content of a particular title and choose not to purchase it. We respect their opinions. In return, we ask that our customers respect our responsibility to offer a selection of reading materials as diverse as the society in which we live, the very society that grants the freedom for these materials to exist."

Okay. I get it. First Ammendment. I work in a world of lawyers, I know how important that right is. And while I have some strong opinions about pornography (normalized and otherwise) and allegories to yelling "FIRE!" in a crowded public space, I won't get on that soapbox for now. Instead, I'll talk about "freedom for these materials to exist."

Yes. They do have a right to publish the continued objectification of women, and they have the right to promote the idea that women are designed purely for the visual stimulation of others. They have the right to suggest that athletic, professional, personal, charitable, and familial merits are not as important as one's ability to arouse members of the opposite sex. And in a world where often the promotion of freedom and rights applies to individuals who oppose traditional values, this right is protected vehemently and adamently, with those who oppose labeled as closed-minded and insecure.

But in a world where people are spending so much time fighting for the rights of the marginalized, can't we recognize that we're stomping on the rights of others to accomplish this?

While I'll consent that those publishing these materials have the right to do so, I disagree that they also have a right to flaunt them in the face of those whose ideals differ to the point of finding these materials obscene and offensive. Why should I have to avoid going to the grocery store if I don't want to see the cover of this magazine? Why should I strategize what errands to run with my sons so they aren't exposed to something I find to be incredibly inappropriate, and what has been empirically shown to have a negative impact on the way they view (and thus treat) women? Why is it okay for their freedom to infringe on the time I get as their mother to teach them things that I find to be adding to their development, rather than expend that precious time attempting to do damage control to prevent this nonconsensual exposure from having a lasting impact on their developing psyche?

You have the right to create it. But you don't have the right to shove it in my face, or the face of my children.

I have the right to walk out of a movie if something is presented that I find offensive. I have the right to close a book if the content is something I find distasteful. But when displays are placed so that I can't even purchase groceries without these images staring back at me, there's a problem.

Looks like Costco will be getting all of my grocery budget for the next month.

Sexual Assault: Victim On Trial

At my job, I have taken on the task of writing a newsletter for each month of the semester, and each one centers around a different mental health issue. An article will describe the mental health concern, and then it is accompanied by two articles that may or may not be related to the theme for the month. January, my first issue, consisted of writing about anxiety, and then outlined the disability resource on campus and how to access their services, as well as an introduction to the law school's charming, competent, and adorable Student Affair's Counselor (me). It was an easy newsletter to write.

For February, though, I'm finding it difficult to write more than few sentences without stopping to find some adorable picture of a baby otter wearing overalls or something equally absurdly cute. The topic I chose for the month is Sexual Assault. With everything going on with Steubenville, Notre Dame, and becoming aware of what is happening locally, it seems like a really important topic to address. And usually, when I'm passionate about something, I can't shut up about it (if you haven't noticed already).

But this one is hard for me.

See, the thing is, I have seen a startling trend in these cases. In my perfect world (well, as perfect as it can be where sexual assaults still happen), a person who has reported that she (because while men can be raped, a large majority of rape survivors are women, so I'll go with that pronoun) has been attacked, she would immediately be placed in a bubble of safety. People she trusted would be at her side. A trained therapist would be there to help her process, as well as advocate for her needs. Accommodations would be put in place for her to feel safe, secure-- whatever that meant (change in class schedule, relocation for work [different office/work from home]). The person accused would be questioned immediately, with such dedication and concern assigned to individuals who has been accused of murder. He would have the burden of proving himself innocent.

I realize, immediately, the potential issue with this scenario. What if it's just someone crying rape? What if it is an ex-girlfriend scorned, and she's just looking for retribution? Yes. I'm sure this happens. But to me, it's a matter of what is at stake-- if the guy is innocent and people go probing into his life, and he's put in a horrible situation when he has done nothing wrong, that would be awful. But in that scenario, the individual accused is probably in a relatively stable emotional state, and while it would be difficult to have to endure that situation, it could be manageable. Awful. But manageable.

Instead, we have our system as it is now. A girl has been assaulted. You have the entire issue behind 76% of rapes occurring from someone she is at least acquainted with (sometimes intimately so), so she has to overcome all of the confusing feelings and guilt that come with being assaulted by someone you chose to have in your life. So she comes forward, reports the assault. And what happens? In a system of innocent until proven guilty, the accused has the benefit of the doubt, and the accuser (the traumatized) has the burden of proving she wasn't "asking for it." What were you wearing? Were you drinking? Have you exhibited poor judgement in the past with multiple partners? Do you have anything to gain by accusing this guy of rape (notoriety, bringing down a sports team, revenge)? Have you ever been in therapy for depression or anything else that could deem you unstable and therefore unreliable?

Ugh. Just typing those words makes me feel sick to my stomach.

And I guess it comes with personal experience. Transferrance. Because recently, I've been in a situation where I was uncomfortable. Felt things were-- inappropriate. Not to the extent of assault. But not okay. And I spoke up about the situation. And spoke up again. And kept bringing it up. The response I got was that I was being "too sensitive." That I was "being unfair." Eventually, I believed them. I felt crazy. I was having a very strong emotional response to something that should not have been happening, but everything around me was telling me that what was happening was okay. When I finally realized that my initial response was appropriate, and I was stuck in a system of enablers, I found my voice-- and I spoke clearly, assertively, and was still met with, "You're making a mistake."

It's scary to me that we live in a culture where so many things that are inappropriate are considered okay. That someone who is uncomfortable because their boundaries have been violated is the one that it is in the wrong, because she's being "too sensitive." Horrible things that happen in public are laughed about-- where will we draw the line? When will we say, "Wait a minute. That isn't okay"? We need to remove the excuses that we assign to inappropriate behavior and instead address the behavior. We need to stop putting the feelings of someone who is doing something hurtful above the person being hurt. Change can be hard. Change can be scary. But I can promise that it isn't harder than what the person who has been rendered silent in an unjust system is experiencing every. Single. Day. Surviving in a system where she is told that she does not matter, that what happened to her is not significant-- that she is merely an object that can be acted upon with no consequences for the actor.

Support. Validation. Empowerment. Even before all of these essential things necessary for healing after experiencing assault, is someone willing to listen. And not just listen to look for holes or defend the accused party-- but really listen. And hear what happened, and what it has done to the person speaking. After having the courage to say something, isn't that the least we can offer?

And because it cannot be viewed often enough:

Jayhawks' Minor Study in Pornography (Emphasis in Perpetuating the Objectification of Women)

I wish I could be the fly on the wall for all of the feminist groups, women's resource offices, and gender studies faculty offices when this little gem was distributed world(wide web)wide a few days ago:

It’s all about who’s in the driver’s seat, and in the case of #kuboobs, it’s the ladies all the way. #kuboobs has emerged from the throes of March Madness: a frenzied, cultish worship of the male body and its physical prowess. It's a masculine sphere that traditionally excludes women (just like those pricks who assume girls don’t watch the games!). But with #kuboobs, ladies are here to announce their fandom, loud and proud, and to seize their own place among the Apollonian body worship that’s synonymous with the NCAA basketball tournament. (source) [WARNING: going to link will show images that may be considered distasteful to those who have not been desensitized to normalized pornography]

Yes. There has been a movement (so classfully deemed a "boobment") that orginated at good ole University of Kansas. The goal? Take pictures of your breasts adorned with something exhibiting a form of school spirit, and post it to the internet for the world to see, all in the name of supporting the KU Basketball team.

The young lady who was quoted above stated that the idea came to her when KU was losing a basketball game against their rivals, the Missouri Tigers, and felt that her only option was to photograph her breasts while wearing a low cut KU t-shirt, and tweet the picture out into the universe. Miracle upon miracle, KU was able to overcome their opponent in the game, and yet another excuse was created to continue the objectification of women under the guise of "empowerment" and "school spirit" (two Jayhawks with one stone).

Let's break down her quote above, because there are a lot of confusing things about it.

• "It's all about who's in the driver's seat, and in the case of #kuboobs, it's the ladies all the way." No. It isn't. It was made very clear that the intention of posting photographs of her breasts was to show support for the basketball team. The male basketball team. Composed of men. And a quick glance over at the facebook page that was created in honor of this phenomenon (which I will not be linking to, because the images there are depressing and disgusting all tied up in one so nice and neat package) show that the comments are coming from men (one from a soldier overseas who is thanking the faceless breasts for improving his day), and the few from women are asking for directions on how to post their own pictures. The pictures of the breasts are not attached to a CV listing the accomplishments or characteristics of the woman in the photograph. Her face isn't even in the picture, so she is defined solely by her breasts. Saying that the women are in the driver's seat when you're falling into the predetermined definition of what is sexy and desirable is like claiming you're the one in charge as you follow the GPS route designed by Hugh Hefner. You aren't calling the shots.
• "#kuboobs has emerged from the throes of March Madness: a frenzied, cultish worship of the male body and its physical prowess. It's a masculine sphere that traditionally excludes women (just like those pricks who assume girls don’t watch the games!)." Okay. I certainly have my opinions about college athletes (especially those that fall into the category of hero worship), but they didn't fall out of the womb possessing their ability. Granted, one cannot train to be seven feet tall, but there is more to it than that-- these athletes are putting in the hours, they're training, they're pushing their bodies and overcoming mental and physical barriers in order to become the best that they can be at what they're doing. So an appropriate response to this sort of "cultish worship" would be to expend energy in supporting women who are accomplishing these same sorts of things-- supporting the KU women's basketball team, for instance. Instead, they continue to feed into the stereotype of women ("just like those pricks who assume girls don't watch the games!") that not only are they not interested in athletics, but they are also defined solely by their physical attributes. #kuboobs = #KUnfusion
• "But with #kuboobs, ladies are here to announce their fandom, loud and proud, and to seize their own place among the Apollonian body worship that’s synonymous with the NCAA basketball tournament." Here's the thing-- YOU aren't announcing anything. If you were, it would include a headshot. Instead, you're just selling a part of your body to the porn agenda, and for what? To feel better about yourself? I really don't understand what the woman gets out of posting pictures of her breasts. To know that some random guy is having a chemical response in his brain to an image of your anatomy is somehow some kind of reward for-- great genetic coding? A decent plastic surgeon? A healthy lifestyle? If you're feeling proud, why isn't your name attached? Someone who is truly "loud and proud" would even link it to their resume, right?

Which brings me to what I feel is the greatest misconception about all of this, which is everywhere today-- the idea that objectifying yourself is empowering. I brought this idea up with my husband, and he said, jokingly, "What if the object is a high powered motor?" Even then, it isn't empowering-- because it still requires something else to power it (battery, fuel, etc). Someone who is empowered requires no one but themselves to move forward. Breasts are not empowered without the woman behind them, and to become only your breasts strips yourself of the ability to, well, do anything for yourself.

So why is the knee jerk reaction when women feel oppressed to take our clothes off? If we've associated restriction with our attire then perhaps we need to move up a size.

 We need to recognize our physical bodies for their purpose rather than define ourselves entirely by what visual stimulation they provide. When we're reduced to eye candy, we are seriously limiting ourselves from doing good in our own spheres.

(Stephanie Nielson says it best, I think.)